Fog City

I'm sure I have something to say, why else would I be sitting here typing. My problem is justifying writing at all. I look in the night sky and can't help being overwhelmed by infinity and the relation to the utter smallness of my thoughts. My time, our time, this time, passes so rapidly, sometimes I don't see the point in expressing thoughts, worthy thoughts, thoughts of past experiences, or even thinking at all. There's a futility in trying to find meaning. I find more meaning in futility. But then the human aspect emerges. We have to live together. So we better find some meaning in our common condition. You would think that would be a simple matter, like caring and sharing. Life is more complicated and there are so many factors in the human condition. Here is where I diverge because I get weighed down trying to balance our innate goodness with our obvious evil. Personally I find the scales tilted in favor of evil, visible in our constant greed, oppression and utter corruption. What then?

I turn to the children, specifically my grandkids. When the definition of love gets muddled on life's journey, for me it's rekindled in the moon light in their eyes, the sunshine in their smiles, the spring in their step, the gladness in their understanding, the realness of their hug. Their souls are free, but for how long? Right now I just wallow in their innocence and joy. When I'm with the little ones I'm transported, and thankfully so. At my age, remembering is a challenge, their antics, their laughter, their questions, all jog my memory. I can relive similar experiences, and smile in wonder at the human condition before.....

Bless the children!

Fog City

                                                              OK
 Aug. 29th 2019

Where to begin? Why begin? What's to be said? I don't know. I just thought since it's been a couple months since I've blogged, sounds like clogged, well something needed to be written. The Labor Day weekend approaches and the holiday spirit collectively builds in the minds of the populace. As I remember the school year didn't begin until after Labor Day, which indicated the end of Summer. But now the kids are already back in the rigmarole of school days. Of course I'm not affected in any way shape or form. I'm an old man and can barely remember youthful times. My days whistle by with little variation and I don't mind. There's an ease to sameness which I now appreciate. Frankly most activities however inviting become an effort. I guess I'm referring to the upcoming holiday season. I really shouldn't go on about my self induced anxiety concerning the prolonged effort from now until the new year. So I won't. But just let me state if I had my druthers, I'd be a solitary curmudgeon.

So what else is new? My brother Casey stopped over the other day, and we had a very comfortable few hours catching up with family matters and sharing annoyances. We delved into our shared history and how our parents divorce affected and changed each of us. We speculated on all the what ifs. Mostly we laughed at even the most traumatic of events, what else could we do? But in old age and having to continue the struggle, the good fight, well sometimes we wish we would have had some money, a formal education, mentors to guide us, aspects which would have helped us navigate the congested and murky waters of life. Regrets sure. We always return to our goof fortune, I mean good fortune. Sometimes we have to search for it. Then we laugh and that's where it starts. Humor is our foundation and what a foundation it is. It is the thread connecting the generations through hard times and celebratory times. My granddaughter tries to make me laugh, and she does to the extreme joy of us both. How much money or education do I need for such a sheer feeling of ecstasy.

Thinking of my granddaughter and the juxtaposition with my sister, her great Aunt, is disconcerting. My sister who knows the healing balm of laughter, also knows the heavy burden of loneliness, of extreme poverty, the despair of no hope, yet she forges on. She has more than tread the fierce rip tides of life, and did it alone. She's old and deserves a respite from all forms of burden. Sadness and struggle unfortunately are human's common legacy. Ain't that funny!

Fog City

Today is Saturday June 22nd, so it is officially summer. Frankly it doesn't mean a twit to me, because at my advanced age every day is the same, with little exception. Although the daylight varies so there's that. When I become aware of all that is happening around me, and be sure plenty is going on, street festivals, music events, art shows, etc. etc., I'm quite mentally motivated. But after further thought, like transportation, congestion, time restraints, distance, large crowds, noise pollution, jostling, lines, sunscreen, well you get the gist. I stay home. I visualize. I've heard it and done it all before anyway, so what's the point. I know, bad attitude. But that's my nature, if it don't come easy forget it.

I did have a wonderful experience on Father's Day. After some gentle coercion by my son, mainly having tickets, provided by his wife, the wonderful Doctor Lauren, Cassidy provided transport, I didn't have to get up early, we were off to the US Open Golf Championship. The event was held at the Pebble Beach Resort on the Monterey Peninsula near Carmel by the Sea. God's country. Or more like the rich peoples country. It certainly was a once in a lifetime chance and I thank Cass and Lauren for that. I must say being on the world famous golf links watching the greatest players in the game had moments of surrealism. The skies were grey and overcast with a marine layer. The temperature cool. The crowds were massive and enthusiastic. We surveyed the best viewing opportunities and got lucky with some but others were filled to the max. Along the 8th fairway we secured an ideal spot. A huge ravine, cliffs sloping down to the sea, dissected the fairway. The players second shot had to carry the chasm. A sliver of land was the only walkway to the green and we were perched right there. This vantage allowed all the players to walk past us no more than arm's length away. We could give them thumbs up, and shout encouragement as they strode past. Certainly a highlight of our experience and we have video and photos for proof. I play golf. Cassidy plays golf. I'm a fan and have followed the game since I was a boy. I know the history. My favorite players go back as far as the era of Sam Snead and Ben Hogan. The game has change considerably but you still have to get the ball in the hole. So comparisons of different eras, different players, different equipment are fun to argue, the action remains the same. I was in awe of the course itself, set up to be a true championship test. I was in awe of the players and their mastery, their skill at conquering such a test. Or not. I was fortunate to share such a rare experience with my son, who knows my history with my dad and my uncle, himself a great golfer, who can appreciate the linkage of time to family through golf. I'm sure he'll endeavor to keep it alive with his family. We rode home in silence, it was late after all, but sometimes silence tells it all.
Love wins again!

Fog City

Today is June 2nd, 2019. My brother Steve’s birthday. And tomorrow is my sister’s birthday. Susan will be 69 and Steve would have been 68. Unfortunately he died at 21. Sad. So today he’s been dead 47 years. And I wonder. I named my first born son Steve. And today I  think about them both. My son is cause for consternation. He has a big and giving heart. That there is no doubt. He is 42 years old and has lived an erratic and adventurous life. His goodness, his joy, the things that make him happy, seem always shrouded in delusion and silence. He always is uncomfortable communicating. His expectations never align with his reality, or our reality. Consequently he exists in a dream world of his own making. And when that dream gets shattered, which it inevitably does, he lashes out. Why is the question. Why can’t he abide by the rules, protocol, and processes which are required to get through this maze of life. I think he just doesn’t care. He knows what’s needed and asked for, but procrastinates or simply doesn’t complete the task. Normal things like housing, laundry, food, identification, bills, finance, all seem to escape his ability to cope. Hence his life is in a constant state of flux. He’s not stupid, although I question that over and over, because of his repeated problems. This flux, his flux, only seems to bother him after another breach in the process. He glides along, slides along as if the broken pieces will magically emerge whole, like a movie run backwards. And the people he’s entwined with suffer. They suffer his anger and frustration. Especially his mother, who only wants him to be happy. With all of his snafus she’s there with her worry and her support. She prays incessantly and worries incessantly, to the point of exhaustion. The burden she carries as his mother, and the cloud of doubt and gloom is affecting her profoundly. I’m affected. The only one who doesn’t seem to care is he. He changes for the better, with good intentions, but it only lasts so long. Sometimes months. Then his demons kick in and his one step forward is two steps backward. And on it goes. The trouble is, he’s wearing down his mother. She’s old and I’m old. We don’t need his shortcomings to be our anxiety. But they are. Parents!

My brother Steve. Frankly I barely knew him. I was three years older. Our young worlds really didn’t overlap. And once our family disintegrated the separation between individuals became more obvious. He was a good boy and funny with a mischievous streak. I remember when he was very young he had asthma. My mom would set up a steam tent over his bed so he could sleep easily. He grew out of it though. One Christmas I won’t forget. The family still pretended to be in tact. Toys were scattered about in the living room and under the tree. We four kids were playing with new stuff and lounging in our pajamas. Steve was looking around and assessing and comparing Santa’s gifts. When out of the blue he yells, “this is the worst Christmas ever!” I guess he didn’t get what he ordered and my mom was chagrined. As we got older and our childhood became adolescence and teen, things really changed.  I had become relatively delinquent and with my dad out of the picture Steve somewhat followed suit. He experimented with nonconforming styles, like Beatle boots and longer hair. He started to get in trouble. My mom, poor thing, was a basket case. She had no coping mechanism for out of control teens. Some how she decided, and I’ll never know how and who with, to allow Sue and Steve to become wards of the state. Both were shipped off to the state reform schools for boys and girls. So much for the post World War ll, 1950’s American family, it was over and radically altered forever. A shame. Steve survived his stint and actually thrived. He came home to finish high school. He developed a group of great friends and even was a star on the swimming team as the lead diver. So today I think of him and a time long ago, fading from memory more each day. Memory is all we really have and when that’s gone, well it’s time to go. For Ramsey my troubled son, I hope he finds his bliss, just a wee bit, before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Fog City

Since 2009 we have gathered as a family in Palm Desert for the Hanucup Golf tourney. Initially it was played in December and coincided with Hanukkah. Weather mandated a seasonal change and now it falls on Mother's Day weekend in the Spring. The name remains even though it's closer to Passover. Children play in the pool, sumptuous food is served constantly and we have our Friday morning tourney. Eight players teed up this year, all of varying degrees of competence, hence we use the handicap system to equal the playing field. Our winner this year was Adam Gautier, with a 31 handicap, edging out myself with an 11 handicap. It was great fun. Cassidy created these humorous introductions, and I wanted to save them.

From: Cassidy Raher <cassidyraher@hotmail.com>
Date: May 9, 2019 at 6:45:38 PM PDT
To: Larry Brooks <larrybrooks@me.com>
Subject: Golf introductions

Golf introductions:

From Cedar Rapids, Iowa, this golfer is the owner of 2 green jackets. As well as 2 gray sweatshirts and 3 white pullovers. A man who’s social media presence rivals that of the Kardashians. A golfer who moves through life at the pace of a lawn bowling match. 3 time Hanucup champion: Tom Raher!

This next golfer’s swing hasn’t changed in two years, which was also his last swing. A man who needs no introduction. The dark horse of this tournament, and within his family. The king of cuisine. Captain of cutting. Chairman of chopping. The barista of the boardroom. Danny Brooks!

Next on the tee, an estate planner from Agoura Hills, CA. He’s the lost member of the rat pack. And the proud owner of a back pack. A seasoned traveler who hasn’t seen his own home since the last Hanucup, he plans on beating all of today’s opponents.... with jokes and sarcasm. Let’s hear it for Adam Gauthier!

“Next on the tee, a fashion icon in his own mind; a golfer who’s had more hairstyles than Lady Gaga; a man who keeps the local dispensaries in business. San Diego native and Former hanucup champion; Steven Dratler!”

Next on the tee, a lawyer from Alameda, CA. This golfer is just excited he’s getting fresh air. A former member of the Avengers, which is the name of his litigation team, he swings his driver like he’s just mainlined a triple shot of espresso. Last year’s runner up, Casey Kaufman!

“First on the tee, the defending champion and family videographer; this guy has lanes reserved at Fantasy Bowling this evening at 11 if anyone wants to join, always representing the Bay and looking to be the first repeat winner, 1 time Hanucup champion, Cassidy Raher!”

“Next on the tee, from Rancho Santa Fe, Ca, this golfer returns to the Hanucup after a 4 year absence. After only playing his home course since then, he’s most looking forward to getting back there as soon as possible. Ready to compete for the crown, Howard Dratler!”

Fog City

I was asked by a 17 year old high school student studying in Switzerland, how old was I, what was I doing, what was my opinion of, and what was the mood and climate in society, especially the protests, of 1968. We've never met but I was happy to oblige.

My Response:

Re: Questions from Natalie
Thomas Raher <tomraher1@yahoo.com>
To:
Thomas Raher

Apr 28 at 1:44 PM

Hi Natalie,
    I'll try to be forthright and lay a bit of my historical landscape. In 1968 I was 20 years old, and it really does seem like a very long time ago. I was serving in Uncle Sam's Army, having been drafted in 1967, and was stationed in Germany. Consequently I was isolated from actively protesting and the military mandates as little outside news, especially public outcries against the military, as possible. Let me go back a bit. Prior to service, as a teenager, and product of divorced parents and a radically dysfunctional family, I rebelled. I had black friends and lived with a black woman, while immersing myself in the black culture. I learned a great deal. Back to the Army. While hanging out in the barracks with black buddies, listening to the soul of Motown, the news of Martin Luther King's assassination spread like wild fire. Of course I was dumbfounded and tried to express my shock to my friends. But the pot was simmering and rage was palpable. They asked me to leave because, obviously as a white man, I was a symbol of all their oppression.
    So you can imagine an entire society torn, the fabric frayed. The political climate as I quickly learned, was divided along racial lines and those pro and con for the Viet Nam war. The manifestations of this climate, this hurricane, were many. Blacks said no more, expressed by the Black Panthers, students opposing the draft protested and took over college administration buildings. The police, well they just got more aggressive. But still being in the Army, I was insulated and only slowly becoming aware of the push and pull of the right and left, and black and white. I saw who was being shipped to Viet Nam, and it wasn't Joe College. Poor whites and an inordinate number of young blacks were fodder for the whims of the military industrial complex. My philosophy on many things was evolving and expanding.
    The events of 1968 radicalized and numbed me, and my opinions solidified then, have varied little. My opinion of the power elite and their class war hasn't changed. In '68 I was of the opinion, with the emergence of left leaning politicians, and the ongoing civil rights movement, that a thread of social justice and fairness for all, would seep or creep back into our collective consciousness. King was murdered, Kennedy was murdered, I'm afraid that opinion was short lived. Skepticism and suspicion ruled.
    The protests went on and would go on for years. Young men were burning draft cards. The nightly news, which we saw very little on the base, reported the number of deaths each day. Families were divided, those believing in stopping Communism, and those who saw the war as waste. My time as a soldier was winding down, and I was becoming ever more grateful I hadn't been sent to Viet Nam. I believed it was wrong, and I didn't want to die. I was siding with the protesters more and more. I was frustrated and saddened, and after the horrific assassinations, my only sliver of hope was a Humphrey victory at the riotous convention in Chicago. He lost and my hopes were dashed. I guess '68 was when I actually became cynical. Cynicism resides firmly in my psyche.
    Nothing has changed actually, from then to now, and I suspect things could be considered worse now. At the time, protests, passing civil rights laws, ending the war, ousting Nixon, we mistakenly felt we made a change. But look at what's happening now. Right wing governments are xenophobic and fostering hate. Trump is building a wall and trampling on civil liberties. Brexit has divided England. And if worrying about the social climate isn't enough, our actual climate is teetering on collapse.  The protests continue for all manner of human rights, and here the police continue to kill unarmed blacks without repercussions. A football player, Kaepernick, protests police brutality and there's protests in the form of white backlash. Racism. Endless war. Corruption. It's been 50 years and.......

Natalie, I hope I haven't been to off putting, but I really don't see the world through rose colored glasses. Although your mom's photos have a positive affect. Thanks for listening. Good luck with the project and your future!!

P.S. My wife read your questionnaire and wanted to respond, I think she'll be sending you her thoughts. OK?

A snapshot or two of me in the Army, circa 1968!

Fog City

February 22, 2019

So What?

I’ve been thinking that it could be possible to use this essay format for writing blog entries. It shows the date and title and formats the writing in a easy to read block. Christine, my beautiful wife just returned from a baseball game at USF, where the Dons won. She was so excited she ordered a Round Table pizza. Actually it’s not much of an excuse because tradition has it, we always have pizza on Friday night. It is Friday isn’t it? Well the street lights just went on so we have to call the kids in from playing in the street. Oh they are all grown and have their own kids, how wonderful!

Fog City

Trump: State Of The Union: A Guest Blog By Thomas D. Raher
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2019
When I listen to and watch Trump, two physical reactions take place. First, I shake my head from side to side continuously. Second, I chuckle in rhythm with my head shaking. Why? Because I'm agog! My political consciousness goes back to the Kennedy murder. I'm old. So my head shaking has spanned many and varied presidents. And I've chuckled at the lies and hypocrisy of pretty near all of them. Although, in my opinion, Nixon and Little Bush have run neck and neck as the most absurd. But, at least, all of the previous "leaders" consistently, at one moment or another, were actually presidential. Until now!

Let me state, I'm not an educated man, but I've read a book or two, which I think qualifies me to be a bit critical in my observations. I'm certainly not critiquing the whole talk as if I was a PBS pundit, but a couple of issues touch me. Also Trump's style, his bullying, is of particular interest.

I thought his hour and a half sing-song address touched very little on the actual state of our union. His tired generalities, platitudes with no substance, and slogans were disingenuous to a fault. Why in God's  name did he feel the need to resurrect World War 2 veterans, and, what appeared to be, a very uncomfortable Holocaust survivor? From my back row seat, I thought this prolonged display, totally irrelevant and misguided. I actually felt sympathy for the old boys, having been so exploited. Of course they may have relished the attention, I don't know. But I do know there's no shame in Trump's game, and his self-praise is embarrassing.

I recently watched, again, a few early episodes of "Mad Men," a show reminding me of my dad during that period, and the inevitable demise and dysfunction of our family, but I digress. I was struck by the real similarities between Don Draper and Don Trump. I saw in the TV depiction of an era and its male dominated culture, exactly what Trump symbolizes. His whole agenda is an AD campaign, filled with unverifiable facts, lies, serious manipulations, jingoisms, slogans and fear. His goal of course is to sell a product the consumer, the voter, us, doesn't need.

THE WALL

His sales pitch for "The Wall" is simply astonishing, manipulating our fear. Our Fear! The Trump train continues thundering down the rails. The noise forces us to take notice even though we try to stifle it, to muffle it, to silence it, but it's inescapable. The bombast, the lies, the manipulations are relentless.

Once again I refer to a film, life imitating art or vice-versa, "The Taking of Pelham 123." The similarity to the Trump train is unmistakable. A psychopath and his gang hijack a subway train and chaos ensues. The crazed leader thrreatens to kill everyone on board unless the city pays a large ransom. Sound familiar? Thousands of government workers are held hostage, unless "The Don" receives ransom money for "The Wall!" The saga continues.

Frankly, I feel like a hostage. I've spent the last two years trying to avoid the Trump train. I haven't publicly expressed my sentiments because I'm from a generation that doesn't talk about politics or religion. I don't follow "The Don" on social media, which, by the way, is another presidential travesty, and I tune out news concerning his shenanigans. That said, these have been some of my thoughts, and now I retreat to the shadows.



Thomas Raher lives in San Francisco. His book, "Letters from a Working Stiff" (2013), a collection of letters spanning the years 1988 to 1995, is available from Lulu.

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Fog City

LIVE LIFE TO THE FULLEST

I’ve often heard the line, “live life to the fullest.” What exactly does that mean? Usually I notice said refrain, after someone experiences a near death occurrence. Cancer patients in remission, near fatal car accident victims are some common proponents of grasping more tightly to what they’ve been given. And when given a second chance, just what is it we become more aware of?

When I put myself in those shoes and think how could I live life to the fullest, my mind reels. My perception or concepts tend to see exaggerated efforts, huge and risky endeavors, and experiences beyond mundane, daily activities. Like climbing Mt. Everest, parachuting period, single handedly sailing across an ocean, or hiking North to South America, things I’m not going to do.

Are these grand efforts and all they entail really living life fuller? Say you slip on Everest ice and slide to your death, or the chute doesn’t open and wham, or a raging storm sinks your boat and you drown, well your fans can sing, he lived life to the fullest. I don’t know, I tend to approach the idea of a fuller life a bit differently. Say I know I’m going to die, which I do, we all are, and I’ve been given a relative time limit. I ask myself, how can I be happy, or happier? What makes me happy and is happy what I want, and is happy equal to fullest?

Let me just interject, knowing I’m going to die does not make me happy. I’m a septuagenarian and have given considerable thought to the subject of a full life. I’m also a pragmatist and understand clearly, happiness (fullest) is personal and subjective.

Happy 1, marked by joy
Happy 2, marked by good fortune
Happy 3, eagerly disposed to be of service
Happy 4, well expressed and to the point

So if I stir these ingredients into the stew of a full life, I honestly don’t see traipsing up mountains as a goal. I can though, use the examples of two figures I admire, Gandhi and Mother Teresa, who climbed mountains and sailed oceans daily, humbly smiling, fortunate to be in service to their fellow man.

I think it’s important to realize a full life is a personal domain. The defining qualities of a full life are not determined by others, but by you. Various monks, Buddhists, Trappists et al, dedicate their lives to austerity, compassion, and harmony, attributes I consider quite fulfilling. This is where I turn inward on my quest for a full life. Knowing I don’t have the resources or desire to triumph over obstacles like mountains and oceans, I can strive to see clearly – to see what makes me happy, calm and joyful and express it.  Understanding is triumph. When I’m silent like now, thinking of these words and what they mean to me and trying to convey them, I’m joyful, I’m happy. Can’t this moment be considered living life to the fullest? I say yes.

The funny thing is I apply this logic, my logic, to all my actions and observations. Each morning when a flock of geese honk their way over my house I revel in our connectedness. When the neighborhood children stop to play in my wife’s fairy garden, and hold the small seashells to their ears, listening for the sound of the ocean, I appreciate the harmony. I can climb two city blocks and see both the Pacific Ocean to the West and turning East, the City’s striking skyline downtown. My Everest. Most significant of this inward looking triumph is family. Logically I reflect, contemplate and dwell on my good fortune, which is my wife, my sons, their wives, and my grandchildren. This family web of consciousness spreads and covers most all my world. All that I see or do has links to family. Fullness.

I won’t bore you with my medical history, but I can attest to being faced with the notion, “I better live my life to the fullest.” What is the fullest? I subscribe to the idea, the mundane, our daily life, what we do and don’t do, are the components necessary. Being aware, being aware of yourself and your surroundings. When you are sitting in your chair and worried about living your life to the fullest, you are. Know it.

P.S.
I would be remiss if I didn’t include a note about the flip side of living a full life. I have some experience in the field and I know more than a few who would discard or discount my earlier thoughts. Those, who would embrace the vices as a means to fulfillment, and shirk all responsibility while diving head long into final debauchery. Oh well, death awaits either way!